I swear—”

Bell knocked Holden’s gun up in the nick of time. It boomed and the powder blackened Blue’s face.

“Hold, you blood-spillin’ young devil,” yelled Bell, evidently wrought up between the opposing forces. But his dark visage was ashen and his brow clammy. His trust died hard. “This man has befriended me. I can’t let you kill him on suspicion.” Then he pushed Holden back and confronted Blue. “Rand, it looks bad. Fork your hoss and slope. I’m givin’ you the benefit of a doubt. But if you have double-crossed me you’d better ride to the end of the earth. Because I’ll track you down and kill you!”

Randall Blue leaped astride his horse and spurred it into the brush with a crashing disregard of his person, to disappear at once in the spring foliage. Bell kept listening to the swish of branch and crack of twig until these sounds ceased.

In a cold sweat Wade sat on the log, reloading his gun, his damp hair falling over his furrowed brow. Bell placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Thanks, son. I reckon you saved my life again,” he said, with feeling. “But I couldn’t let you shoot Blue.”

“Man alive! Didn’t you see his face?” expostulated Holden.

“Yes. It worries me. But I don’t see through things quick. . . . Let me think. What to do now?” He sank on the log to lean his head on his hands. After a moment of concentration he looked up, his old forceful self again.

“I’ll walk over to this farmer friend—forget his name—and fetch some grub. I’ll make a deal with him to hide our hosses and let us have a buggy or spring wagon. We can make as good time with that. And be less likely to excite suspicion. That little raid will fly over Texas. Won’t Mahaffey and Pell roar? Ha! Ha! . . .